


la raccolta

by heartsfilthylesson



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 17:01:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 4,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3658194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartsfilthylesson/pseuds/heartsfilthylesson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a collection of ficlets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some of my shorter, and unrelated, tumblr ficlets. The prompts will be at the top of each chapter!  
> Ratings will vary.

_**_**First meeting.** _ ** _

It’s always unfortunate when interesting topics are handed to the monotonous. Hannibal spends the entire conference between traversing his mind palace and examining his recipe collection. The fumbling orator might make a gorgeous boudin noir aux pommes. At the end of the presentation, he shakes the speaker’s meaty, sweaty hand. Hannibal finds himself so repulsed by the man he’s not sure his flesh will serve as more than fodder. An idea is taking shape when two others join his little group.

Dr. McGill, an aging but charming man, greets him with a smile. “Hannibal, it’s good to see you.”

“Dr. McGill, what a pleasure.” Hannibal bows his head. Introductions are being made when a third approaches them. A small woman about his age dressed immaculately enough to rival him, with blonde hair falling over her shoulder and the sharpest, coldest eyes in the room. He’s immediately interested.

He notices the old man’s gaze linger on her a moment too long and he purses his lips. “Hannibal, I don’t believe you’ve met Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier.”

“Dr. Du Maurier.” He shakes her hand and feels her eyes on him, appraising and categorising. All his thoughts shift from ridding the world of that dreadful psychiatrist and focus on Bedelia Du Maurier. “Your paper on aversive conditioning is quite brilliant.”

She offers a polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “You’re too kind, Dr. Lecter.”

Her gaze shifts briefly to Dr. McGill and that’s all the information he needs. Hannibal is ready to excuse himself and proceed with his elimination of the perspiring presenter before Dr. McGill speaks.

“If you’re still searching for a new psychiatrist,” the man starts, looking quite pleased with himself, “Dr. Du Maurier is a star.”

Though her expression is nothing but gracious, Hannibal can tell Dr. Du Maurier is displeased with the suggestion so he smiles.

“If I may have your card.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The most intimate kiss of all aka cunnilingus.

He lingers at the threshold to watch her: spine straight, knees just at the edge of the keyboard, elbows at her sides, fingers navigating the piano with skill. It‘s a beautiful sight and rather than disturb it with his voice, Hannibal chooses to do with his touch.

“Bedelia,” he murmurs against the soft skin of her cheek but it garners him little reaction. She hums and continues her rendition of Debussy’s Nocturnes. Her fingers are steady as he kisses along her shoulders and her neck but when he catches her earlobe between his teeth, she misses a note.

His hands find their way around her body and he strokes her ribcage through the thin fabric of her dress. Bedelia sighs and the music stops.

Pleased, he moves his touch higher. “Turn.”

 She does as he requests and he kneels between her thighs, bunches her skirt around her hips. Hannibal leaves wet kisses on the back of her knees, along her inner thighs; he pushes the lace of her underwear aside and eases in an exploring finger.

“Bedelia.” She looks down at him, makes a frustrated noise when he removes his finger. Her breathing is ragged, her chest, neck and face flushed and he must taste her. He smiles, wide and almost feral, before dipping his head in, before pushing the lace aside with his teeth.

Hannibal licks and sucks, her moans escalating whenever he uses teeth, and eases two fingers in and out, in and out. Her elbows hit the keyboard and she comes with a wordless scream and the jarring noise of the piano.

He keeps his mouth on her until the trembling abates and she beckons him upward for a kiss.[  
](http://stellasgibsons.tumblr.com/post/94074105943)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How about bedannibal + first night? :)

It’s not the first time they kiss —a lingering touch and a brush of lips in the kitchen, her back against the foyer wall and his teeth on the thin skin of her throat— but it’s the first time he feels she’s ready for more.

The taste of port is heavy on her tongue, the scent of patchouli and spices heady on her skin. “May we?” He asks against her shoulder, and he sounds almost timid to his own ears. She responds by unceremoniously unbuckling his belt and reaching under the waistband of his trousers.

A part of him wants to take his time, to savour every inch of her, but she runs her short, impeccably manicured nails along the length of him and he simply cannot wait.  _Later_ , he tells himself, and leads her to his bed.

The fabric of her dress is thin and soft beneath his hand as he shifts it upward and gathers it about her hips. Bedelia sighs into his ear when he runs two fingers over slick skin,  digs her nails into his scalp when he bites and licks along her neck.

He gives her a long, searching look which she holds even as she helps him out of his silk boxers and guides him inside her. It’s quick and ruthless and exactly what they both want, what they both need.

Later, after they both catch their breaths, he helps her out of her clothes and settles between her legs.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bedannibal + first kisses

They wordlessly agree to a partnership of sorts: she follows him around Europe, she remains as his psychiatrist, she stays alive. No more, no less.

Neither of them considers proximity and familiarity as altering factors but as they settle into life together, their relationship changes.

He begins to request her company as he cooks —meat  _always_  bought from the farmers’ market; she starts to expect his input in the papers she writes but will never submit.

One night, after dinner, Hannibal asks her to join him for a glass of port. The offer surprises her as this time they usually spend apart. He leaves the house for long stretches and she reads through old psychiatric journal. Bedelia accepts.

Hannibal politely inquires on her latest work and Bedelia praises his braised lamb shoulder but they drink mostly in companionable silence. Once their glasses are empty, she announces she will retire for the night. Ever the gentleman, he rises with her.

There’s something different, almost reverent, in the way Hannibal looks at her now and she freezes in the spot. The corners of his lips turn up and he tilts his head. “May I?”

She considers feigning confusion but they know each other too well. She considers saying no and walking away. She says yes instead.

He brushes his knuckles along her jaw before leaning in, his eyes never leaving hers. His mouth touches hers softly and undemanding. Bedelia surprises herself by grabbing the back of his head and pulling him closer, by moaning when he sweeps his tongue across her lips and deepens the kiss.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannidelia: Bedelia pregnant in Italy.

She thinks of her mother, pale and blonde and frail, of how she ceased being proud and begged her only daughter to marry, of how she cried for grandchildren. _Look at me now, mother_ ,  she thinks: in a farce of a marriage to a cannibal, a murderer herself, pregnant in her forties. I _s this what you wished for?_  It’s absurd enough to laugh but her stomach turns and she vomits instead.

“Bedelia?” Hannibal’s voice is dripping with so much concern she feels sicker. “Let me help you.”

Her fists clench until crimson nails dig into her palm. Bedelia hopes it draws blood. “I don’t need it.”

He hovers near the doorway and stares at his feet. It’s strangely satisfying to watch him falter from the corner of her eye. “I know this has been—” he pauses, uncertain, and she wants to feast on his self-doubt, “bothersome.” Hannibal finishes with an ill-concealed sigh and she doesn’t stop the indignant huff that leaves her lips.

“ _Bothersome_ ,” she repeats, derision in every syllable, and holds onto the towel rail for purchase. His hand is instantly on her elbow and Bedelia accepts it because it’s the only way. Three months pregnant and she’s thinner than before,  too weak to do much but half-hope for either a miracle or a miscarriage. “Of course.”

(Bedelia doesn’t think she can do this for twenty-four more weeks, doesn’t think she can negate herself independence and sleep for a lifetime but the thought of a blonde, brown-eyed baby refuses to leave her mind.)

“I need to be alone,” Bedelia says once she’s on her feet, when she feels steady enough to wash her face and brush her teeth. _“Please.”_

Hannibal gives a solemn nod and kisses her cheek before walking away.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murder couple: Hannibal watching Bedelia do her hair...

“Hannibal,” she says, catching his eye in the mirror, sets the silver hairbrush on the vanity, blonde hair down in loose waves, “you’re staring.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle and he rises barefoot from the bed. “May I?”

Bedelia’s eyes close when the brush touches the back of her head, strokes long and leisurely, and her breathing slows down to a steady rhythm.

(Lately, he lives for these small moments of intimacy: a shared look, a long chat, a quiet meal. They mean much more to him than her body, soft and pliant and willing, beneath his, slick skin against slick skin.)

“All done,” he says once he’s satisfied with his handiwork. Bedelia smiles, eyes heavy lidded, as Hannibal runs a hand through her hair, down her shoulders and along her collarbone before leaning in, lips brushing her ear. “Bedtime?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bedannibal joining the mile high club

“Have you fucked in an airplane?” Despite the unusually crude language, Bedelia’s tone is even and detached, professional almost.

Hannibal nearly chokes on his champagne. “No.” He dabs at the corners of his mouth with a cocktail napkin and tries to ignore the fingers travelling the length of his thigh. “It seems highly inconvenient.”

Bedelia’s breath is warm on his neck and she nips at his earlobe, hand moving higher toward the zipper of his trousers. “You’re right,” she says and moves away from him.

A fight from Paris to Florence is just under two hours but Hannibal, pulse quickened and panting slightly, is under the distinct impression it will feel much, much longer than that.

Out of the corner of his eye he watches Bedelia browse a SkyMall with mild interest. Somewhat relieved, he returns his attention to his own magazine. Then she throws a blanket on his lap.

One of her hands slides beneath the soft blue fabric, reaches for his belt and finds its way into his silk boxers. “Bedelia,” he says, his attempt at a warning closer to a hiss. “What are you doing?” The only answer is more pressure and her tongue in his ear.

A young flight attendant approaches them and offers another glass of champagne. Bedelia, head resting on his shoulder, smiles politely and accepts the flute, her hand still busy within his trousers.  _Non_ is the only word Hannibal can manage and she clicks her tongue at his lack of courtesy. She finishes her drink in one long sip.

“Bathroom,” she whispers as soon as the interruptor walks away and rises. Hannibal tries to convince himself to stay seated, that such an act in a place like this would be far too impolite but his body doesn’t cooperate. He counts three minutes and goes after her, the short walk seemingly endless in his state.

Her mouth is on his the moment he steps inside the small lavatory. She bites on his lower lip as he moves away for air and unzips his pants with remarkably steady hands. “Quick.” Bedelia reaches for the hem of her tailored skirt and gathers it about her hips.

A surprised growl tumbles from his lips when he touches her, when he finds her inner thighs already slicked. One step forward and he backs her into the sink, pushes down her underwear and enters her effortlessly.

They don’t kiss, merely exchange breaths, gazes locked. He holds onto her hip with bruising strength as the pace increases, feels her muscles tense and strain much sooner than he expected. Her head falls backwards and he bites the juncture of her neck and shoulder as he finishes.

Breath still uneven, he watches her clean herself, helps her fix her skirt and smooth her slightly tousled hair. “

Thank you,” she says and kisses his cheek.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bedannibal at one of Hannibal's dinner parties

He covers Bedelia’s hand with his and thinks of the countless invitations she rejected back in Baltimore. Her curiosity and whatever desire she had to pull back his, as she had so eloquently named it, human veil, were limited by the boundaries of psychotherapy. Accepting to attend one of his dinners would have been highly unprofessional. Yet here they are now, the hosts, diamonds on her left ring finger and a gold band on his.

“The food was absolutely wonderful,” says Alba, a tall and thin woman in her late thirties, her words thick with wine and a southern Italian accent. She’s standing far too close to Hannibal but the words are directed at Bedelia, who smiles pleasantly though he’s certain she’d rather stick the woman in the oven without preamble.

“Thankyou,” she replies, her smile now closer to a sneer, “but it’s my husband you should be praising.”

The use of the title doesn’t go unnoticed and the corners of his eyes crinkle with amusement at her apparent jealousy. “But you’ve got an eye for selecting the protein.”

Perhaps, considering their  _situation_ , hosting a dinner for a dozen guests was a bit presumptuous but when opportunities present themselves —a pair of very crass men at an enoteca in this case,— they must be seized.

As Alba blathers on in animated Italian about the meal, he sees another chance, predicts another party quite soon. Bedelia squeezes his hand once and he knows she’s thinking the same.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things you said when you thought i was asleep

They settle into life together with remarkable ease. Bedelia reads backdated journals and writes articles that will never be published while Hannibal retreats to the crevices of his mind; she sits at the kitchen counter and pretends to listen as he cooks and chatters; they eat together and they don’t speak of Will Graham.

Saturday evenings, after the table’s been cleared and the last dish put away, Hannibal kisses her cheek and wishes her a good night. Bedelia does not ask where he will go or what he will do and he does not tell her. She knows, though, with more certainty than ever. The cuts of meat in the freezer remain ambiguous only because she does not know their surnames.

On those nights spent apart, she settles in the den with too much wine and reads news of a place that’s no longer home. One particular Saturday, as she finishes her second glass of moscato, she comes across a Tattle Crime article. It’s the one source she does not allow herself to use—and the only one Hannibal does— but curiosity gets the best of her.

The headlines are glaring and tasteless but Freddie Lounds is the first to consider less of a hostage and more of a willing participant. Bedelia is more amused than intrigued by her angle, melodramatic as it is, but she reads it anyway. She bookmarks an especially detailed timeline of her relationship, professional or otherwise, with Hannibal.

She falls asleep somewhere between murderous lovers and cannibalistic rituals and Will Graham. When Bedelia wakes, there are heavy footsteps nearby and light is already filtering through the bay windows.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watches Hannibal walk with a slight limp, clocks the blood on his wrinkled dress shirt and the scratches on his face. He almost doesn’t look like himself, put together and pristine as he is. It suits him, she thinks, and pretends to be asleep.

“Bedelia?” He sits on the corner of the settee, by her bare feet, and she does not stir. He sighs and shifts, long fingers brushing the back of her hand as he reaches for her iPad. She wonders if he will mind her reading material for the night but realises she doesn’t care.

“Murderous lovers,” he says to no one in particular and wraps his fingers around her ankle. He tightens his grip once and she tries not to flinch.“It’s a shame she’s only half right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm at drbedeliadumaurier.tumblr.com. send me a prompt, i might be able to fill it~


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal has a nightmare

“Hannibal?”  Bedelia touches his shoulder and he shudders.  “Hannibal?”

He catalogues his symptoms –tachycardia, dyspnoea, dizziness– and it’s an easy diagnosis: nocturnal panic attack. He keeps his eyes closed and focuses on breathing, on slowing his heart rate as Bedelia’s fingers travel up his neck and across his cheekbones.

“You were screaming,” she tells him and he feels his stomach turn, the acrid taste of bile rising  from the back of his throat to the flat of his tongue. He swallows hard and counts to ten. “I had to wake you.”

“Nightmare?” He nods though he cannot remember.

Bedelia brushes hair back from his temple and the images return. He’s alone in his old Paris sitting room, bare except for his office armchair in the centre. There are footsteps and laughter and then only silence. The off-white walls turn red, the distinct shade of blood. He cannot see their bodies but their lifeless eyes flash before him: the sister who was stolen from him and the girl who couldn’t be his daughter; the man who would never be his lover,and the woman who is his wife but won’t be his friend. The den is his world and he’s the only one left.

Tears roll down his face and he reaches for Bedelia’s hand because he’s not alone here, not yet.

When he opens his eyes, the room is as dark as his dreams.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can you now write about Bedannibal - Bedelia has nightmare? The last one with Hannibal was great!

Her newest patient’s calloused fingers against her trachea, his saliva splattering across her nose and cheeks as he growls and mumbles. Her vision blurs but she finds the letter opener she keeps on the desk. There is blood on her hands, there is blood on her face, there is blood on the carpet. **  
**

She wakes with tears in her eyes and a heaviness in her chest, with a heart made of  marble instead of muscle. It reminds her of something she read in medical school, the lord’s promise to restore the soul. It’s all reversed for her, an aberration – what once was flesh turning to stone.

The nature of her dream and the sentimentalism of her thoughts anger her and she can’t keep herself from sobbing.

“Bedelia?” Hannibal stirs beside her. She shuts her eyes and hopes he goes back to sleep. “What happened?”

She sobs again, tears flowing freely now, streaming down her face and onto the pillowcase. Hannibal keeps his hand on the small of her back, completely still but strangely soothing.

“Nothing,” she says when her breathing steadies and wipes at her face with a corner of their duvet.

Hannibal hums but does not ask again. “Very well,” he says and kisses the top of her head.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> first time bedelia joins in on a murder

Every evening, they sit in the study, a glass of wine in their hands. Hannibal shares meaningless stories and Bedelia smiles and nods when expected. They never speak of what he does but she knows what he is: murderer and cannibal, more monster than human.

“I want to see you,” she says one of those nights and takes a long sip of pinot noir. A simple statement but there’s no doubt Hannibal knows exactly what she means. A long silence stretches between them, his hard, questioning gaze never leaving her face. She does not look away.

Hannibal does not ask for assurances and she does not offer any. He only nods. “Tomorrow.”

-

They follow his quarry into the outskirts of the city, Penderecki playing in low volume. The choice surprises her –Hannibal prefers the baroque composers, seems to dislike anything vaguely modern classified as classical– but makes no comment. This is a new side of him after all, the last sliver of his shroud.

He flashes the headlights and waits for the driver in front to stop. “I’ll just be a moment.”

Bedelia watches Hannibal chat with the young man, watches as he turns to check his silver Mercedes, watches him tumble to the ground.

“A very rude librarian,” Hannibal explains once his human prey is in the boot. She nods, surprised by how normal this feels.

It’s another hour before they reach their destination: a small, run-down casetta in the middle of the woods. The first floor is all dust and debris, but the cellar smells like dishwasher and disinfectant. There’s a slab in the middle of the open room, a set of medical instruments on a nearby table. She touches them with the tip of her fingers and shivers.

There’s an armchair in the corner but she’s too restless to sit so she hovers nearby, arms folded across her chest.It reminds her of her first autopsy. Cortisol and adrenaline running through her, stomach turning over and over until she feels like she might vomit if she closes her eyes.

Hannibal goes about murder with the same precision he does everything else. His hands are steady and his cuts exact, as if he were healing and not harvesting. He extracts and stores liver and lungs and kidneys and sweetbreads until there’s little more than skin and bones left.

When he finishes, he cleans his hands with a white towel and looks at her, expectant and exhausted.

“Thank you,” she tells him, the first words they exchange since arriving, and wipes dry blood off his cheek.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bedelia giving Hannibal a surprise for his birthday but it's not something nice, instead it's like a reckoning for the death of their patient.

They share antipasti di mare, oxtail pappardelle and bistecca alla fiorentina – a simple meal by both their standards but a beautiful one she crafted without his help. It’s touching. “You did wonderfully,” he tells her and brings her hand to his lips.

She bows her head. “You taught me well.”

They clear the table together and when he laughs at her for spilling sauce on the tablecloth, she rolls her eyes and kisses him hard. It shocks him sometimes, how well they’ve adjusted, so well he often forgets that she once was just his psychiatrist, that this was never meant to happen.

“I have a surprise,” she tells him once they settle in the sitting room, a platter of biscotti and a bottle of vin santo across from them. She reaches under the low table and hands him a large, rectangular box. “Auguri, Hannibal.”

Inside is a brown leatherbound book, a collection of baroque anatomical illustrations with his name engraved in bold cursive on the front. He browses through the pages, moved by its beauty and her thoughtfulness. Only a handful of the images aren’t reproductions but it must have taken many trips to markets and libraries to comprise it. Hannibal sets the gift aside and kisses her fingers. “This took time.”

Bedelia smiles and dips a biscotti in her wine. “I’m very patient.”

Later, after dessert’s finished, his glass slips from his fingers. He watches as it crashes on the floorboards, slivers flying across the room and beneath the furniture. He tries to rise to clean the mess but his limbs feel foreign, his body too heavy. Something is wrong but his thoughts crash into each other and he can’t figure out  _what_. Mouth suddenly dry, he swallows hard.

“I hate to do this on your birthday,” Bedelia moves closer to him and pats his knee, “but opportunities must be seized.”

Another betrayal. He thinks of rain and Will Graham’s blood on his shirt. Tears fill his eyes and roll down his cheeks until he can taste them.  _I trusted you_ , he tries to say but the words don’t get past his lips.

Hannibal closes his eyes and counts his breaths until his mind clears. When he looks at Bedelia again, the living room light catches on her diamond ring.

“I won’t kill you,” she assures him, tone so soft it’s almost sweet. “Interpol will be here soon.”

“Why?” He asks in a voice that is nothing like his own. “Why now?”

Bedelia gives an uncharacteristic sigh and flips her blonde hair. “I’m very patient.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr @drbedeliadumaurier for more bedannibal and constant suffering.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: I wish you would write a fic where... Bedelia meets some man which is finally worthy her and Hannibal is jealous as hell

She does not comment on the speed with which Hannibal drinks his wine at the dinner table or on the slight slur to his words when he suggests they share a glass of port in the sitting room. When he nearly knocks over the bottle, she wraps her fingers around his wrist and offers to serve.

“Grazie,” he says and drapes himself over an armchair. He watches her pour the wine, watches her sit across from him for an immoderate amount of time. Neither speaks and though soft music drifts in from the dining room, the silence is unsettling. She almost wants to wish him a good night and get in bed but that would mean he wins whatever game they’re playing and Bedelia hates losing.

The next best thing, she resolves, is to get as drunk as he. She tilts her head back and empties her glass.

It’s so quiet and dim and they’ve had so much to drink that she feels herself falling asleep. Her head rolls to her shoulders, her grip on the wineglass loosens but Hannibal’s voice startles her awake.

“So who is he?” His sitting beside her now, jaw clenched and lips pursed.

Bedelia stares at him, tipsy and drowsy and confused. “What?”

“Who is he?” he repeats with an edge to his voice. He pauses and breathes in through his nose.  “The man you’re seeing.”

 _Of course,_ she thinks, finally understanding why he’s been behaving so unlike himself. If she were less polite, she would roll her eyes. She smiles instead, tight-lipped and humourless. “Are you jealous, Hannibal?”

“Bedelia.” He makes to bang his fist on the cushion and curses under his breath when his knuckles meet thick wood. “Just tell me who he is.”

“I’m not seeing another man, Hannibal,” she tells him, drinking the last of her port.

“Don’t lie to me,” he says and he sounds almost sad, defeated. “I saw your phone, all those messages to an unsaved number.” Hannibal takes a deep breath and leans toward her until his head is resting on her lap. “And you seem more content than ever. Don’t tell me you’re not seeing someone else.”

“I never said I wasn’t seeing someone else. I only said it’s not a man.” Bedelia cards her fingers through his hair and scrapes her nails against his scalp. “Her name is Giulia.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Hannibal tells Bedelia about a sex dream he had...about her. Bonus points if it's in therapy

“Some say dreams are the cheapest discourse.” Hannibal presses his mouth into a tight line, his hands uncharacteristically restless on his lap. “What do you think, doctor?”

“Perhaps,” Bedelia says with a tilt of her head, “but we aren’t here for idle chatter.”

Hannibal hums. His gaze is fixed somewhere behind her –the setting sun or the blooming trees of her much-too-large yard. “I’m hesitant to share.”

She sets her notepad and pen on the low table beside her. “This is your time,” she begins, glancing at the small gold watch on her wrist for emphasis. “You choose how to spend it.”

“But?” The corners of Hannibal’s mouth curve into the smallest of smiles.  

Her faint smirk is a mirror of his own. “Some say dreams are answers to questions we have yet to ask.”

His smile widens a fraction, showing a hint of perfect teeth. He flattens his palms on his thighs to still them, throws his shoulders back before speaking.  “I’ve dreamt of you,” he says, his eyes meeting hers.

“I don’t need to tell you it’s hardly uncommon.” She reaches for the pad again and makes a few notes. “It’s nothing troubling.”

“It may be so.” He closes his eyes for a second, taps his fingers against his knee once, twice, thrice. “But the nature of the dream still concerns me.”

“Would you like to elaborate?”

He clears his throat.“I was performing a particularly intimate sex act on you.”

The pen nearly slips from her grip at his admission. Hannibal is her patient but his words send unbidden images to her mind –his head between her thighs, his elegant nose pressed against her clit, his long fingers bruising her skin. Bedelia berates herself for her wildly inappropriate thoughts and hopes her skin’s not flushed.

“I believe our time is up,” she tells him without looking at her watch. “Red or white?”

\--

Hannibal leans against the kitchen counter and watches her open a bottle of Bordeaux. “I hope today doesn’t affect our relationship, Dr. Du Maurier.”

“Of course not.” She hands him a glass; he drains half with his first sip.

“Are you certain?”

“Hannibal, I’m your therapist,” Bedelia says, mildly annoyed with his insistence and eager for him to leave. “It won’t affect anything.” 

She drinks her wine and wonders whether that’s the truth or a lie.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When it rains/storms/snows.

“I think it might rain.”

She turns her head as she shakes her umbrella, lips pursed and eyebrows raised. Hannibal’s eyes are bright, very obviously amused, and Bedelia, slightly damp and quite disgruntled, is not too polite to roll her eyes. Hannibal attempting to be humorous is the last thing she needs.

“Hysterical.” She steps out of her now ruined nude suede Brian Atwood peep-toe pumps and unbuttons her coat.

He shrugs, stepping behind her and helping her out of her damp coat. “Shall we have some Glühwein?”

She takes her coat from his grasp, bends down to pick up her shoes. “Yes,” she says because she is cold and wet and alcohol will help. “After I change.”

Hannibal reaches for her waist, fingers near the side zipper of her dress. “May I help?”


End file.
